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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670106">Sleepwalker</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrFish/pseuds/DrFish'>DrFish</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Caring John, Crying, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sharing a Bed, Sleepwalking, Top John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:08:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,763</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrFish/pseuds/DrFish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected bout of sleep disturbances bring John and Sherlock closer.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>276</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The case had gone on longer than most. It had taken 5 days for Sherlock to solve it. Five days of intense all-nighters, interviews with suspects, and chasing down red herrings. John was there for most of it, but, unlike his mad flatmate, he insisted on sleeping at night. He didn't know exactly what Sherlock did between the time John climbed the stairs to his own bedroom and when the sun came up, but he knew it didn't include all that much sleeping. </p><p>Now, the murderer was in custody, ample evidence had been documented and organized to get a conviction while exonerating the workman who had been framed for the crime. All the proper paperwork had been completed, signed, and filed. John and Sherlock headed home to Baker Street, stopping by the Chinese restaurant at the corner for a satisfying dinner on the way. </p><p>Sherlock, obviously exhausted, had showered and gone to his room by 9 o'clock with no additional conversation. John knew the longer, more complex cases were draining for Sherlock, and the detective would take some time to decompress and process the details. Sometimes he spoke to John about aspects that troubled him: grievances of witnesses against victims who had been so horribly treated; blatant attempts to rewrite the truth into something more convenient; comments from spiteful Yard detectives, envious of the spotlight that Sherlock so often occupied. The attacks from fellow detectives were especially taxing. They were carefully crafted to cut deep into the armor Sherlock wore in public. The detective tried so hard to conceal his humanity, but John knew better than most people that Sherlock was a deeply empathetic and sensitive person. That Sherlock had come to trust John with these vulnerabilities, as well as so many other aspects of their daily lives as flatmates, was testament to how far their friendship had come in the less than 1 year of their acquaintance. </p><p>In truth, John felt their friendship was very close and he wanted it to be more. He was plagued with doubt, though. That first meal at Angelo's, Sherlock had made it clear he was married to his work. What a fool John had made of himself. But what if things were different now? Couldn't a bloke change his mind? John had hope, but for now, he simply admired his flatmate from afar. No need to hurry.</p><p>The night passed quietly. The good doctor / blogger was at his desk in the sitting room, typing up the details of the case for his blog while the events of the past few days were still fresh in his mind. He glanced at the computer clock, 10:30 PM. </p><p>He was thinking it was probably time for him to head upstairs to bed when he heard the door to Sherlock's bedroom abruptly open. The barefoot detective, dressed in his pajama bottoms and an inside-out t-shirt, came marching out to the kitchen and went directly to the refrigerator before bruskly opening the door and peering in.</p><p>"Can't sleep?" John asked.</p><p>Sherlock did not reply, which was uncharacteristically rude, as he would often at least give a low hum of either acknowledgement or disagreement when John asked him a question. John transferred his laptop to the side table and turned, looking over the back of his chair to see Sherlock in the kitchen.</p><p>Despite John's obvious stare, Sherlock paid him no mind. He went about his business, removing the milk and setting it down on the kitchen table. After closing the refrigerator, he opened the bottom cabinet next to the sink and, with a great amount of clamoring around, took out several pots and pans and set them on the table next to the milk. Then he paused, standing still to regard the items on the table, apparently deep in thought.</p><p>"Sherlock, mate, what're you doing?"</p><p>No answer.</p><p>Sherlock pulled out one of the two kitchen chairs, but instead of sitting down, he carried it over to the hearth and set it facing the fireplace. Then, he returned to the kitchen for the second chair, brought it to the sitting room, and set it alongside the first. Finally, he sat down on the first chair, staring intently at the cold, dark ashes in the fireplace.</p><p>John very easily recognized this behavior as sleepwalking. Somnambulism. He did not know Sherlock to sleepwalk. Perhaps Sherlock had been sleepwalking before and John simply assumed he was up working or doing whatever else he did in the middle of the night? Sleepwalking was fairly rare in adults and if it was a new activity for the detective, it could indicate a problem. He would have to speak with Sherlock about it tomorrow.</p><p>John quietly rose from his chair and went over to sit in the empty kitchen chair next to Sherlock. In the dim light, he could see Sherlock's eyes were half-lidded and his stare was glassy and vacant. </p><p>"What are you doing Sherlock? Can I help?" John asked gently and quietly.</p><p>Sherlock responded, his voice low and serious. "Just observe." So John sat patiently next to his friend, their shoulders touching, and perhaps 5 minutes ticked by. Sherlock said nothing more and continued to watch the fireplace closely. John was finally feeling the exhaustion of the day. Best get Sherlock back to bed so he could go to sleep himself. </p><p>The doctor moved slightly, nudging Sherlock with his shoulder to make sure he wouldn't startle. He stood and moved around behind Sherlock, one hand on his shoulder. He reached for Sherlock's hand, which lay relaxed on his knee. Standing next to him, John tugged his arm gently, urging him to stand.</p><p>"Come on, back to bed, Sherlock." John spoke firmly but kept his voice quiet. He was met with a quiet mew of protest. "Turn towards me," he commanded. Sherlock turned in the chair to face him, eyes pointed to the kitchen but unfocused. "Stand up," John added and again Sherlock complied. Once he was standing, John took him by the arm and led him down the corridor. </p><p>Back in Sherlock's bedroom, lit dimly by the lamp on the nightstand, John led him over to the bed and pulled the covers away. Sherlock laid down and as soon as he rested his head on the pillow, his eyes closed, the tension left his body, and his expression settled to one of quiet repose. He looked almost angelic in the dim light of the room, his raven curls spilling over his forehead, accentuating his angular features. John pulled the duvet up over his sleeping flatmate and listened as his breathing evened out. He switched off the lamp, walked quietly from the room, and closed the door behind him. He left it open several inches, though, so he could hear if Sherlock got out of bed.</p><p>John returned to his chair. He saved and closed the Word document on his laptop, then sat quietly, listening to sounds coming from the flat. Ten or fifteen peaceful minutes passed by and John was nodding off. It was unlikely Sherlock would wake again that night and John was tired. He went to the bathroom to use the loo and brush his teeth. On the way to his room, John stopped by the kitchen and put the milk, now damp with a layer of sweat, back into the fridge. He would leave the chairs by the fireplace and the pots and pans on the table. It would be a good mystery for Sherlock to solve tomorrow.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John woke early the next morning when his cellphone rang. It was the clinic- two doctors had called in sick with the flu and they needed someone to fill in on short notice. John was always happy to help out in such situations. He hadn't been to work in several days and he would appreciate the social contact, not to mention the paycheck.</p>
<p>John showered, shaved, and quickly dressed. Sherlock's bedroom door was still open a crack, the detective sound asleep in bed. John grabbed a quick piece of toast for breakfast and was down the stairs and out the door by 7:30 AM. </p>
<p>When John returned home that evening, he was delighted to see that Sherlock had already made dinner. The air in the flat smelled warm and inviting and a tossed salad was sitting out on the worktop. The chairs had been returned to the table and the dishes were washed and put away. </p>
<p>"Good evening, John," Sherlock said when he heard John come in. He was seated at the kitchen table, looking through his dissecting scope. He was still dressed in his pajamas, but his hair was immaculately in place and he looked good. As usual. </p>
<p>Sherlock took one last look then switched off the scope light and rose from his chair. "I made an eggplant parmesan. What type of pasta do you want with it?" he asked as he filled a pot with water and set it to boil on stove.</p>
<p>"Oh, that smells lovely. Do we have angel hair?"</p>
<p>"Yes," Sherlock replied as he reached into the pantry cabinet and shifted some boxes around on the top shelf, undoubtedly looking for the angel hair. He was doing it in that way he did most things. He knew he was attractive and even looking for a box of pasta it showed. John loved it. Yeah, he should definitely consider having a talk. Eventually. But not tonight.</p>
<p>"Right, I'll get washed up."</p>
<p>By the time John was done in the loo, Sherlock had a plate prepared for him and the salad out on the coffee table in the sitting room. The two flatmates sat in comfortable silence and tucked in to their dinner. John was very hungry, it had been a busy afternoon and he hadn't anything to eat since lunch.</p>
<p>"So, Sherlock," John ventured, curious and still a little concerned about the night before, "did you sleep OK last night?"</p>
<p>"Delightful, I was quite tired, I didn't get up until near noon," Sherlock responded around a bite of salad. He stopped chewing, and studied John's face as suspicion took over his features. "Why?"</p>
<p>"Well," John started, "shortly after you went to bed last night, before I turned in, you came out of your room and were walking in your sleep."</p>
<p>Sherlock stared at John, still mid-chew. The bridge of his nose wrinkled and he blinked rapidly as he obviously tried to remember. "What happened? What did I do? Did I say anything?" he demanded, looking around the room in alarm.</p>
<p>"Nothing, really. You just moved the chairs around. You were interested in the fireplace, but didn't say why. You were only up a few minutes before you went back to your room." John didn't elaborate that he had taken Sherlock back to bed himself.</p>
<p>"Interesting," Sherlock finally responded as he returned to his meal. "I suppose that explains the kitchen chairs in the sitting room."</p>
<p>"Have you been a sleepwalker before?" John asked.</p>
<p>"Only when I was quite young. It was a childhood phase and I grew out of it. Telly?" Sherlock reached for the remote controller to switch something on. He seemed very uninterested in continuing the conversation. He was right, it was probably just the stressful case, just sleep deprivation. </p>
<p>"Yeah, sure, whatever you want," John replied.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John startled awake to the sound of the door to 221B closing. It hadn't slammed, but his military doctor instincts were tuned well enough that the out-of-place sound of the latch clicking back into place had roused him from sleep. He listened as Sherlock's footsteps descended the stairs. The door to the street opened, then closed. John climbed out of bed and padded over to the window, hoisting it open and putting his head out into the damp and cold night air.</p><p>Baker Street below was still and dark. John glimpsed the coat-clad figure of his flatmate moving briskly along the sidewalk: hands in his pockets, head down, hurry in his step. John glanced at the clock. It was shortly after midnight. He got the distinct feeling something was amiss. He quickly pulled on a t-shirt and descended the stairs to the sitting room. He grabbed his shoes and coat and continued downstairs.</p><p>Out on the street, John ran down the sidewalk to catch up with his flatmate, shouting his name, but getting no response.</p><p>"Sherlock!" John shouted again as he finally came up behind him and reached for Sherlock's arm. At the contact, Sherlock turned, fist swinging towards John's head. The motion was clumsy and John easily dodged the punch, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and turning him so that John had him from behind with his other arm hooked around Sherlock's elbow. Even in his right mind, Sherlock would struggle to escape being held in this position as the shorter man, with his more compact strength, had the advantage.</p><p>"Sherlock! It's me, John! I'm not trying to hurt you!" he shouted as Sherlock writhed and twisted, arching back against John's chest to try and throw him off balance. The detective continued to struggle, whining in complaint and grunting with his efforts, but not speaking. "Wake up, Sherlock! It's John. Please, I need you to wake up! NOW!"</p><p>Like a bucket of ice water, the words suddenly seemed to reach him and Sherlock froze in place. The street fell quiet except for the sound of their heavy breathing.</p><p>"Come on, Sherlock, wake up," John spoke more softly, "we need to get you back inside."</p><p>"John?" Sherlock's voice was low and croaky, but the slight waver betrayed his confusion.</p><p>"Yah, it's just me, Sherlock." John let him go but kept a hand on his arm as he turned him to see his face.</p><p>"Where...?" Sherlock clutched the sleeve of John's jacket. He looked over the empty street, then at John, then down to the ground. His brow was furrowed in confusion. "Why are we fighting and where are my shoes?"</p><p>John looked down. Indeed, Sherlock was barefoot. His pale feet contrasted against the wet asphalt.</p><p>"We're not fighting, Sherlock, you were sleepwalking and I accidentally startled you. You're alright?"</p><p>Understanding seemed to dawn on Sherlock and he glanced around the street once more, then his feelings quickly turned to embarrassment. "I'm sorry, John. This hasn't happened in ..." he didn't finish the sentence. "Did I hurt you? I didn't realize it was you."</p><p>"No, Sherlock, you didn't hurt me, there's no need to apologize. Let's get you back inside before your feet freeze."</p><p>Pressing one steady hand against Sherlock's lower back, John guided him along the sidewalk, back towards home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Were you dreaming?" John asked the next day as he sat down in his chair in the sitting room.</p><p>"I don't recall," Sherlock answered curtly from where he was flopped on the couch.</p><p>"You said this happened before? When you were a boy?"</p><p>Sherlock sighed. "Yes. I was maybe 10."</p><p>John waited, but Sherlock didn't elaborate.</p><p>"And?"</p><p>"And what, John?" Sherlock threw his best put-upon glance over his shoulder.</p><p>"Well, how long did it last and did your parents do anything to help?"</p><p>"I grew out of it, no thanks to the quack therapist they sent me to."</p><p>"I see," John replied. "Why did your parents think you needed a therapist?"</p><p>Sherlock froze, his breathes coming in quiet pulses as he realized he was caught out.</p><p>John felt a twang of affection and sympathy for the younger man. Sherlock certainly had a mysterious and perhaps troubling past that he preferred to keep private. "You don't have to talk to me about it, Sherlock, but I think it might help."</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away, but not before the doctor saw the flash of conflict cross his flatmate's face. John recognized it as the look he had when he wanted to seem indifferent, unreachable, but he was, in fact, considering what John just said. It was like John had lobbed a mysterious parcel over Sherlock's protective walls and he was carefully examining the suspicious item to make sure it wasn't a bomb. John waited patiently.</p><p>After a period of silence, Sherlock finally spoke up. "It was during year 6. My parents switched me to a new school. I hated it." Sherlock paused. His back rose and fell as he took a deep breath. "I had a... difficult time in school. I didn't get on well with the other kids. I guess I didn't fit in. My mother was convinced I had social adjustment problems and <em>therapy</em>," John could hear the contempt in his voice, "including medications, would fix me. I didn't like being treated like I was... <em>not right</em>."</p><p>John regarded Sherlock's back, hunched up and looking small on the couch. He imagined a curly-headed little boy who thought his parents wanted to <em>fix</em> him. John had the urge to get up and cross the expanse between them. To perch on the edge of the couch at Sherlock's hip, put a warm hand on his shoulder, and offer reassurances that he was, in fact, not broken and he never was. John knew, though, that Sherlock would misinterpret such actions as patronizing. </p><p>"Was the sleepwalking very severe? I mean, did you ever do anything dangerous?"</p><p>"Other than try to leave the house, no," Sherlock replied.</p><p>John considered. "Look, sleepwalking is fairly normal in children and it certainly doesn't signal a mental illness. It sounds like you grew out of it, as children usually do, so I'm sorry you were treated that way. What's happening now is probably just caused by stress or fatigue, or just the strain of that last case. Was there something about that last case that bothered you particularly?"</p><p>John sat patiently, waiting for a response from Sherlock, but none came.</p><p>The doctor churned the case over in his head. The crime started as a theft, then went wrong and ended in a brutal double murder. The Yarders were ready to condemn the worker who had been painting the flat downstairs. Though the man had confessed, the crime didn't seem to add up. The real killer, Henry Booker, was a university drop-out, desperate for money but couldn't hold a job. Booker was a loner and also probably quite brilliant, who knows what he could have accomplished if he hadn't been so troubled and cut-off from society. Sherlock had taken an immediate interest in him when he was identified as having been at the block of flats that day. Reluctantly, Lestrade gave Sherlock permission to participate in interviews with Booker on three more occasions. Of course, Sherlock finally got the information they needed and together with John had recovered the money and stolen property, sealing the case against the university drop-out. </p><p>Booker never showed remorse. He thought he was entitled to the money of the 72 year old lady he tried to rob. He would have gone free, if Sherlock hadn't been so insistent that Lestrade interview him more thoroughly. As usual, the Yarders and the city as a whole owed Sherlock a debt of gratitude, but had repaid him in suspicion and jibes that he had too much in common with Booker. The implication was, as Donovan said, one day they would all be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one who put it there.</p><p>Perhaps that was it. Perhaps the eager vilification of the innocent worker, the troubling psyche of Henry Booker, or the Yarders' crueler than usual treatment of Sherlock had brought up unpleasant memories from his childhood. But, sharing his suppositions with Sherlock would accomplish nothing other than to make the detective uncomfortable and withdrawn. John had been gifted the information from Sherlock's past, and he wouldn't wield that privilege lightly. He decided instead to focus on his intent: concern for Sherlock, not a desire to intrude or subject him to a layperson psychoanalysis. </p><p>"The fact that you're sleepwalking isn't terribly worrisome since you already have a history of the behavior. But I am concerned that you tried to walk down the street. You have no idea where you were headed?"</p><p>Sherlock considered the question before finally responding in the negative. </p><p>Several moments of comfortable quiet passed between the friends. Finally, Sherlock jumped up off the couch and headed to the kitchen. "I have work to do, John."</p><p>"Yah, sure," John replied. He picked up the newspaper that he hadn't a chance to read yet and scanned the front page headlines. Sherlock knew John was there for him when- if- he wanted to talk.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was getting rather late, but the spy novel John was reading was a real page-turner. He lay comfortably in bed, warm under his duvet with his head propped up on several pillows. The bedside light cast a gentle glow and the flat was quiet and peaceful. His shift at the clinic was at noon the next day. No reason why he shouldn't read one more chapter.  </p>
<p>John was startled by a shout, a quiet but heart-wrenching <em>ahhh!!</em> from downstairs. He jumped up and descended the stairs towards Sherlock's room. The sleep-heavy tone of Sherlock's voice had not inspired his sense of danger, but instead activated his instincts as a caregiver.</p>
<p>He pushed Sherlock's door open without knocking. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, and as John approached he was shocked to realize Sherlock was actually crying. His mouth clamped into a grimaced frown, tears streaming down his face. John perched on the edge of the bed and wrapped the detective in his arms without hesitation.</p>
<p>"Shh.... shh.... what's wrong, Sherlock? Are you awake?"</p>
<p>Sherlock clutched at John, burying his wet face against John's chest. He didn't say anything, instead, his gasps and sobs escalated. It certainly seemed like yet another sleep disturbance. John was at a loss- what could he do? "Oh, sweetheart," John held him tight. "It's OK, you're alright, I've got you." He continued to hold him firmly, gently stroking his back and whispering assurances. At one point he leaned back, brushing the damp curls away from Sherlock's face so he could see his eyes. The blue-green irises, visible just barely in the low light, were unfocused  and unseeing.</p>
<p>He kept gently trying to soothe his flatmate, but despite the passage of several minutes, Sherlock was still inconsolable. John considered whether he should try to wake Sherlock. Speak loudly to him? Turn on the lights? But what was the sense in interfering? Sherlock's brilliant mind was working through something, and he was safe here in his room with John. It was better to leave things be. </p>
<p>How would one soothe a child in such a state of distress? He was hugging, rocking, whispering, trying his best to make him feel loved and safe.</p>
<p>In a low, quiet voice, John began to sing.</p>
<p>"O, where are you going? To Scarborough fair,<br/>    Savory sage, rosemary, and thyme;<br/>Remember me to a lass who lives there,<br/>    For once she was a true love of mine."</p>
<p>Sherlock quieted somewhat as he listened to the lyrics.</p>
<p>"And tell her to make me a cambric shirt,<br/>    Savory sage, rosemary, and thyme,<br/>Without any seam or needlework,<br/>    And then she shall be a true love of mine."</p>
<p>Sherlock was quiet now, save for the stuffy sound of trying to breath through the aftermath of the tears.</p>
<p>"And tell her to wash it in yonder dry well,<br/>    Savory sage, rosemary, and thyme,<br/>Where no water sprung, nor a drop of rain fell,<br/>    And then she shall be a true love of mine."</p>
<p>John continued to hum through another stanza quietly. He shuffled farther onto the bed and turned Sherlock to lay down on his pillows, his head resting on John's left arm. He stopped humming, allowing the room to fall to silence when he saw Sherlock's eyes were finally closed and he appeared to be resting. He breathed in and out through his slightly open mouth to bypass his clogged sinuses, a quiet snore already beginning to sound. John pulled a tissue from a box on the bedside table and wiped gently at Sherlock's snotty nose. He would be mortified if he remembered any of this. Which, hopefully, he wouldn't. Actually John wasn't ready for Sherlock to remember this either.</p>
<p>John pulled the duvet up over both of them and snuggled deeper into the pillows. The warmth from Sherlock's body was comforting and he was relieved his flatmate's nighttime crisis seemed to have passed. He would lie here for just a few minutes, just long enough to make sure Sherlock was asleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John surfaced slowly from the depths of sleep. He was warm and comfortable, aware of a living, breathing body next to him. It felt very right. His head was pillowed on his left arm, his right hand rested on an angular hip. Behind his eyelids he could tell the light in the room was bright- much brighter than his own. He sighed deeply and snuggled closer to the man next to him. He pushed his pelvis forward just slightly, his usual morning wood pressing against his boxers. He opened his eyes and was immediately met with the calm but inquisitive seafoam blue-green stare of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>John snapped into wakefulness immediately, his mind racing and heart jumping in his chest. <em>Shit!</em> It was an accident. He didn't mean to sleep next to Sherlock all night, what would Sherlock think about John snuggling with him without his consent? The man had been a sleeping emotional wreck for Christ's sake! He pulled his arm away from Sherlock's hip and tried to shuffle back but was stopped by a quick strong hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's calm eyes were now a little startled and confused, and he held John tight to prevent a dignified escape.</p>
<p>"It's alright, John, you don't have to run away." </p>
<p>John froze but was eager to explain. "Sherlock, wow, yeah, um... about <em>this</em>..." He wasn't sure exactly what he was referring to: being in bed, the snuggling, or the erection, or maybe all of it.</p>
<p>A knowing smile ghosted Sherlock's lips. "I assume you are here only because I was sleepwalking. <em>Again</em>." The smile faded and his disappointment was palpable. "But... thank you." </p>
<p>John was torn between savoring the moment and extricating himself from the situation as quickly as possible. He wanted badly to lean forward and kiss those perfect lips. His reason won out and instead he brushed the curls away from Sherlock's forehead, running his fingers through his hair to gently hold the back of his head and angle it down for a chaste kiss on the forehead. "You're welcome, Sherlock."</p>
<p>This time, when he shuffled back, Sherlock let him go. John slipped out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed briefly. He stood up, feeling his shoulder stiff as usual. He gave Sherlock a gentle smile over his shoulder as he left, not yet ready to turn and face his flatmate while he was sporting an obvious erection. He wanted desperately to clear the tension between them. He wanted to wake up in bed next to Sherlock, to have a lazy lie-in, to show Sherlock how much he loved him. </p>
<p>John Watson wanted all those things. But he wanted them to come about consensually, not from lust spawned by some caring gesture in the dark of night. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the usual dream. Sand, sun, hot blowing wind. John was supposed to be in surgery but he was at the wrong field hospital. He was AWOL, desperately trying to get back to his duties, but completely clueless as to where he was supposed to be. Each room he tried was wrong, wrong, <em>wrong</em>.</p><p>He jerked awake, upright in bed, a shout just on the tip of his tongue. Car headlights flashed over his darkened bedroom. The flat was still. Quiet.</p><p>He was fine. There was no patient waiting for him. No wounded soldier bleeding out while John floundered about in the wrong hospital. It was just a dream. He had spent the last few weeks so worried about Sherlock's nocturnal problems that he had almost forgotten about his own. He almost forgot how familiar it was to wake up confused, to not remember where he was. What it was like to watch the veil of the dream recede, leaving in its wake a bland reality that he was nonetheless relieved to return to.</p><p>With a sigh, he laid back in bed, dropping his head onto the pillow and closing his eyes. That's right. <em>Sherlock's nocturnal problems</em>. A flutter of embarrassment, of regret, touched his stomach. It had been several days since he woke up in bed with his flatmate. They hadn't talked about it, John hadn't offered any more explanation or details of Sherlock's nighttime outburst because Sherlock hadn't asked. The hopeless pair had simply carried on life as they always did. </p><p>John rolled over onto the other side and struggled with the pillow as he tried to get comfortable again. His thoughts jumped from one topic to the next, spiraling back through the events of the past days. There were worries about Sherlock's sleepwalking. What if he hadn't stopped him the night he tried to walk down the sidewalk barefoot? What if, while asleep, he decided to concoct some dangerous chemical mixture in the kitchen or put the toaster in the sink? An obvious solution would be to sleep together in the same room. John wanted that. But did Sherlock? Thoughts, feelings, hopes, the last relationship he had with a man, a broken heart. John's mind was fully awake now. No use trying to sleep. </p><p>John had just resolved to get up when he heard a bit of noise in the downstairs hall. Maybe Sherlock heard him yell? He never talked about his nightmares with his flatmate and he didn't want to start now. The git was so smart, he probably knew anyway. He listened as the footsteps reached the foot of his stairs and began to climb. Sherlock <em>never</em> came up to John's room. Well, that he knew of. What now?</p><p>The door creaked open slowly and Sherlock peaked inside.</p><p>"I'm sorry if I woke you Sherlock. I'm alright. Just, you know..." he trailed off as Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped inside.</p><p>"Can I sleep in your room tonight?" Sherlock asked.</p><p>John paused. There was nothing he could think of that he wanted more than to curl up in bed with his best friend. Once he had Sherlock warm and safe in his arms, he could drift comfortably to sleep.</p><p>"Why?" John asked.</p><p>Sherlock was already crossing the room. "Because you're lonely and you had a nightmare," he replied as he tossed the covers aside and climbed in next to John. "Besides, I can't sleep in my bed because there's a porcupine in it," Sherlock added as he wiggled down into the bed, unceremoniously shoving John back towards the wall with his back.</p><p>"A porcupine, Sherlock?"</p><p>"Yes, Mycroft put it there. Very drole. I'll let it out tomorrow."</p><p>John sighed. Figured. Sherlock wasn't even awake. </p><p>He might as well just go with it, though. Sherlock had already made himself comfortable in John's double bed with the pillow beneath his head. He lay facing the room, John pinned between him and the wall. It felt secure, actually, being between Sherlock's warm, solid body and the wall. </p><p>Sherlock's breathing had not yet evened out, but he was lying still and seemed peaceful. What was the harm in letting him stay? </p><p>John reached down and grabbed the spare blanket off the foot of the bed. He folded it into a makeshift pillow for himself and snuggled back down behind Sherlock and tried to arrange himself in the unusual position.</p><p>John's bed was rather small for two grown men, so in order to keep a bit of space between them, he was pressed back towards the cold wall, the edge of the duvet riding up to let in the draft of the room. He wiggled a little, trying to get comfortable, trying not to wake Sherlock. He inched away from the cold wall just a little. Then he inched a tiny bit more, closer into the warmth of Sherlock's back. The duvet settled behind him, blocking out the cold room. </p><p>John's head was now sharing the pillow that Sherlock had commandeered. His nose was almost at the back of Sherlock's neck. He could smell his posh shampoo and the moisturizer that he was always spreading on his arms to keep the eczema at bay. There was also something else. Perhaps a faint hint of sweat, or just the smell of Sherlock. It smelled nice. </p><p>John was warm and cozy. A car went by outside. The sounds of Sherlock's breathing were accompanied by the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. Once again, 221B Baker Street was still and quiet. All the worries that had just been circling in John's mind evaporated and he drifted slowly into a peaceful sleep.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When John woke the next morning, he was alone. He went downstairs to find out that, despite it still being early, Sherlock had already gone out. It wasn't unusual for the detective to go out early in the morning because he preferred the commuter-crowded streets and tube stations for interacting with members of the homeless network. He had a talent for blending in with crowds, when he wanted to.</p>
<p>John was simultaneously relieved and disappointed that Sherlock had gotten up and left before John woke and they could talk. He wondered what Sherlock had thought when he found himself in John's bed. Surely he wouldn't remember there was a woodland creature in his own bedroom, so he was probably a bit confused. It seemed, though, that Sherlock was taking his sleepwalking in stride and was perhaps, then, not too bothered. John briefly considered checking Sherlock's room for porcupines, but he was pretty sure Mycroft hadn't been by lately so surely his flatmate must have dreamed it.</p>
<p>John carried on with the rest of his morning. He cleaned out the refrigerator and went through the mail that had piled up on the mantle. When Sherlock returned around noon, he greeted John cordially but was apparently in a contemplative mood and stole straight away to his bedroom with his laptop computer. John knocked on his door that evening to see if he was interested in dinner, but he responded in the negative. So, John made beans and toast for himself, watched telly, responded to blog comments, and then went up to bed to read.</p>
<p>It was past midnight when John finished his spy novel. He made a quick trip downstairs to the loo. Sherlock's door was still closed. </p>
<p>Once back in bed, wrapped in warmth, he switched out the light. Within just a few minutes, he felt himself sinking towards sleep. </p>
<p>There was a quiet knock at his door.</p>
<p>"Sherlock?" he asked, somewhat surprised, as he sat up in bed.</p>
<p>The detective pushed open the door, his form just a shadow in the darkness.</p>
<p>"Um... I ah... was up. I couldn't sleep. I was wondering if, maybe, you'd be alright if I... ah... if I could sit here with you for a while?"</p>
<p>"Sure, Sherlock," John said as he scooted back towards the wall and lifted the blanket, providing a clear invitation to his flatmate to come in under the warm covers. Sherlock crossed the room and climbed into bed. John noticed Sherlock had brought his own pillow when he placed it next to John's and settled himself into bed, lying on his side facing him.</p>
<p>The two men lay quietly in the dark, the silence was heavy between them. </p>
<p>"John?" Sherlock's hesitant voice came through the darkness.</p>
<p>"Yes, Sherlock?"</p>
<p>"I think I'm ready to talk about it."</p>
<p>"Alright," John responded.</p>
<p>Sherlock took a slow, deep breath and let it out. "My first year at uni, I didn't have many friends. I didn't have any friends, actually." Hurt flashed through John's heart at the thought of Sherlock being so alone at what was, for most young people, a wonderful time filled with new people and experiences. </p>
<p>"Classes weren't very interesting and I didn't get on with the other students. Group laboratory assignments were the most difficult. I skipped a lot of classes, and my marks were not very good. Mostly I kept to myself. I stayed in my room, or I went to the library, or walked the city. Honestly, during my first year, I didn't plan to come back." </p>
<p>"But, that spring, I made a... good friend. Victor. We became boyfriends. Victor was charismatic. Professors and students liked him. He had an energy that drew people in. He always saw the <em>good</em> in people, when I always saw the bad. He liked walking the city with me. The pubs and the back alleys and the parks. Everywhere we went, we met new people. That's when I started establishing the homeless network. I spent so much time with Victor and among people."</p>
<p>"Third year, he went to study in France. He met somebody. We drifted apart."</p>
<p>John was about to offer the 'I'm sorry' platitude, but Sherlock continued before he could say it.</p>
<p>"Henry Booker, I guess Donovan was right. I am like him in some ways. What he did was heinous, of course. Inexcusable. But, I know, a bit, what it's like. Being so alone. I was always alone. It's tempting to just... give up. To get trapped in your own head. I was Henry's age when I started to figure it out. But, I had a friend, I guess he wasn't so... fortunate."</p>
<p>John thought it over. He could see now why Sherlock was feeling a bit unsettled. It wounded him, though, the guilt in Sherlock's voice. That he didn't understand how genuinely good he was, how worthy of love. </p>
<p>Perhaps Fate had just handed John Watson the perfect opportunity. Sherlock was reaching out to him.</p>
<p>"Do you think Victor would have seen the <em>good</em> in Henry Booker?" John asked, trying his best to keep his voice gentle and unjudging. He didn't want to invalidate Sherlock's feelings, that he felt empathy for a ruthless killer was proof of the quality of the young man's character. "Could... would Victor have loved and cared for him, the way he did for you?"</p>
<p>Sherlock was caught off-guard by the question. He thought it over.</p>
<p>"I can't know. But... no... I suppose not."</p>
<p>"Sherlock, you are a good man. You've made a career of helping people. Of saving people. You've saved me. Whatever malice, or anger at the world, that made Booker decide to kill those people, you don't have it and you never will. I know you, Sherlock, I know you're not a sociopath."</p>
<p>Sherlock was quiet.</p>
<p>John reached forward, firmly holding Sherlock's shoulder. He wished he could see his eyes. But, maybe that's what made it easier to make confessions under the cover of darkness. It was the false sense of anonymity. The belief that it's easier to walk back on truths uttered in the dark.</p>
<p>"I don't always see the good in people, I don't have a lot of friends," John went on. "For a while, after I got back from being deployed, I didn't want to be around people much at all. It's hard to go through that and still have much faith in the world. But then, you know what happened? I met you. You're charismatic. People like you. You always see the <em>good</em> in people, when I often saw the bad. You walked the city with me. The parks and back alleys and, yes, crime scenes. Everywhere we go, we met new people. And things are better for me now because of it. I have you, and the work, and my job at the clinic, and all the people I see."</p>
<p>"What I'm saying, Sherlock, is you're the rescuer, not the one being rescued. You are worthy of love and being loved. So anytime you need to, you can come up here and see me, OK? I'm here for you. I'm not going anywhere."</p>
<p>Sherlock took a deep breath, then was quiet. There probably wasn't much he could reply to all that, but John just hoped he believed it.</p>
<p>"Thank you, John. If it's OK...with you... I'd like to sleep here tonight."</p>
<p>John pulled Sherlock forward and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead. "I'd like that, too," he whispered. John wanted to kiss the beautiful lips that he knew were <em>right there</em> in the dark, but before he could make up his mind, Sherlock shuffled away and turned over. He snuggled back towards John and fit himself as the little spoon against the older man. John reached over Sherlock's hip, placing his hand over Sherlock's heart and hugged him tight to his chest. </p>
<p>"Goodnight, John," Sherlock whispered.</p>
<p>"Goodnight, Sherlock."</p>
<p>John's bedroom at 221B was quiet, but not as quiet as usual. He could hear Sherlock's steady breaths, in and out. He felt the heart beating beneath his hand and felt the warmth in his own. He was truly happy. John drifted off to sleep: free from fear of nightmares, and secure in knowing Sherlock was safe in his arms.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Spoiler alert for those of you who don't read the tags: the next chapter contains sex. It does nothing more for the plot. If you came here to read a fluffy story about John, Sherlock, and sleepwalking, you can stop here knowing they are happy and safe together.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>NSFW</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John opened his eyes to the dim morning and the warmth of a living, breathing body up against his back. John was now the little spoon. He sighed deeply. It felt nice. He had slept straight through the night. No nightmares, no worries, just rest.</p><p>There was a gentle nudge against his bottom and he realized Sherlock was fully hard up against him. The familiar and invigorating feeling of a stiff cock- <em>Sherlock Holmes' stiff cock</em>- stirred his arousal. </p><p>"Good morning, John," came Sherlock's deep, sleep-rumbled voice, accompanied by a press of his hips.</p><p>John rotated onto his back, turning to finally see Sherlock's face in the dim light. His curls were sleep tussled and beautiful, his eyes bright, his gorgeous bowed lips just begging to be kissed.</p><p>John smiled. It was a genuine smile that matched the joy he felt at that moment. The closeness with this cherished man. "Good morning, Love," he responded.</p><p>Sherlock closed the distance between them and gently kissed John's lips. It was a tentative exploration of tongues, breathing, and bumping noses. Sherlock broke the kiss and leaned back, his blue-green irises dark in the dim light.</p><p>"I want this John. I've wanted this for a long time."</p><p>Coming together again, the kiss continued. Slow at first, then John licked along the cupid's bow and pressed his tongue between Sherlock's lips, which Sherlock parted to give him entry. John licked into his mouth, feeling the softness of his tongue, mesmerized with this new part of Sherlock. As the kiss became more heated, he framed Sherlock's face with his hands and gracefully turned them over so Sherlock was underneath him. He continued to lavish attention on Sherlock's lips, the beautiful curls of his hair between John's fingers.</p><p>John rutted up against Sherlock's thigh. He was so hard. He shifted all his weight to his right elbow and ran his left hand down Sherlock's chest. When he reached the bottom of his t-shirt, he reached up underneath it, running his palm over the smooth skin and firm muscle. John's hand slid back down past his navel to the sparse hairs at the waist of his pajama bottoms and paused. He opened his eyes, which he hadn't realized he closed, and leaned back to see Sherlock, breaking the kiss in the process.</p><p>Sherlock's lips were red and wet. A high blush graced his cheeks and he was breathing a bit heavily. He looked debauched and it was the most alluring thing John had ever seen.</p><p>"May I?" John asked as he skimmed his fingers along the waistband of Sherlock's pajama bottoms. Everything about Sherlock's body language and the noises he was making said he wanted this.</p><p>"Yes," Sherlock replied, "yes to all of it."</p><p>It was all John needed to let go. He leaned in to kiss Sherlock again as he reached into his pants and wrapped his fingers around the firm length. He gave it a gentle squeeze and was answered with a gasp. He stroked up the length and felt a tiny bit of precum moisten his hand. He rutted against Sherlock's thigh again. <em>These pants have got to go</em>.</p><p>He pulled his hand away, resisting the urge to chuckle at Sherlock's slight whine of disappointment.</p><p>He slipped his own pajama bottoms and pants down to his knees, freeing his cock, then kicked them off with his feet. Before he could get back to Sherlock's pants, the detective had slipped out of his pajama bottoms and pants together and cast them onto the floor next to the bed. John wanted to <em>see</em> Sherlock. All of him. He grasped the hem of the t-shirt and pulled it up and over Sherlock's head. He pulled off his own t-shirt, noticing how Sherlock's eyes flashed down to the gnarled scar tissue on his shoulder. John briefly admired the pale plains of Sherlock's chest and well-defined abs, sparsely covered with short hairs.  </p><p>"Beautiful," John whispered, then he settled back down onto that perfect body, reveling in the sensation of finally being completely bare and pressed together.</p><p>John returned his hand to Sherlock's cock just as he felt Sherlock grasp him. Sherlock's touch was warm and gentle. He pulled along John's length then reached down to circle around the scrotum, lifting his testis and rolling them along the pads of his fingers. He returned to the shaft and stroked from root to tip, pulling the foreskin back as he circled John's considerable girth and slid his hand back down.</p><p>John groaned and leaned in to nibble at Sherlock's ear lobe. "I want to taste you," he whispered in Sherlock's ear, then began kissing a trail down his neck, descending lower and lower towards the prize.</p><p>This was the first time John had ever seen Sherlock erect. His prick was long and somewhat slender, rising from a well manicured thatch of pubic hair. <em>Of  course</em>, John thought and fought the urge to smirk. He grasped Sherlock's slender hips with both hands, and leaned in and licked at the side of the head. With no more delay, he engulfed the glans in his mouth. The fit of it against the roof of his mouth was exquisite.</p><p>John took his time. He held Sherlock's hips down and bobbed his head back and forward. He worked the frenulum with his tongue and enjoyed the scandalous noises that Sherlock was making. He licked at the slit, tasting the bitterness of precum and the distinctness of Sherlock. He heard his bedside drawer open and a cold bottle of lube was pressed against the back of his hand.</p><p>He slid off Sherlock's length with a pop and looked up at him. If Sherlock looked delicious and debauched before, he was irresistible now. </p><p>John took the lube in his hand and looked back up into Sherlock's eyes. "You sure?"</p><p>"Yes, John," Sherlock gasped, "yes to <em>all of it</em>. I want you. Inside." </p><p>As if that wasn't the hottest thing John had ever heard. He recovered Sherlock's cock in his mouth, his own erection even heavier now at the promise of what was to come. <em>Inside</em>.</p><p>He flipped the cap of the lube open and squeezed a generous amount into the palm of his right hand. He let it warm before covering his left index and middle fingers, then stroked the rest along the base of Sherlock's cock as he pulled his mouth off. This next bit required a little more concentration.</p><p>He reached down and gently stroked around Sherlock's hole, the warm lube slipping easily. He circled and stroked, stilling his ministrations with his right hand while he patiently waited for<br/>
Sherlock to relax. He pressed in with one finger, just past the double ring of muscle and stilled. Sherlock gasped at the intrusion. </p><p>"Oh yes, John," Sherlock panted. "So good..."</p><p>After the brief pause, John pushed in a little farther, pressing against the walls but avoiding Sherlock's prostate. He alternated gentle strokes and pauses, waiting patiently for Sherlock's body to adjust. When he felt he was ready, he pressed in with another finger.</p><p>Taking his time, John worked Sherlock open. When he finally brushed over his prostate, Sherlock hummed loudly. John's erection had calmed slightly from the concentration of preparing Sherlock, but the sound of his partner's arousal brought him back to full hardness.</p><p>John let go of Sherlock's cock, using his right hand to slick his own length with the remaining lube. He pulled his fingers from Sherlock and crawled back up over Sherlock's chest, bracketing the younger man's shoulders between his hands as he leaned over him. John looked into his eyes then lowered himself for another kiss as he lined the head of his cock up with Sherlock's hole.</p><p>Slowly, <em>slowly</em>, John pushed into Sherlock's willing body. The tight heat enveloping him was exquisite. </p><p>A twitch of discomfort touched Sherlock's face. John paused, only half in. Oh, how he wanted to thrust forward, balls deep, but that wasn't how this worked. He waited patiently, fighting the instinct, until he felt Sherlock's body adjust to the intrusion. A nod from Sherlock and he pressed in a little deeper.</p><p>Finally, <em>finally</em>, John bottomed out and paused. He opened his eyes and stared deep into Sherlock's. John was a rather experienced man, but he had never experienced anything quite like this before. He felt completely connected and he wanted to stay like this. There was no urge to rush forward, to finally be given the permission to thrust, to race towards the obvious conclusion. Just like this, here, with Sherlock, John was satisfied.</p><p>After several minutes, it was Sherlock who proceeded. A tip and forward circle of his hips, and it was obvious what he was asking for. But he said it anyway. He said it in a ridiculously low and seductive voice, dripping with arousal, and it drove John around the bend. "John, <em>fuck me</em>. Cum inside me. Please." </p><p>John began shallow, then slowly drew the strokes out farther, pushing back in deeply after each. He thrust steadily, yet gently, studying Sherlock's face for signs of discomfort. The dark curls were sweaty and matted to his forehead, his eyes pinched in concentration. He was letting out whimpers of pleasure, gasps and sighs, and John knew neither of them were going to last much longer. He reached down and pulled Sherlock's thighs up, simultaneously shifting himself slightly lower so that he would brush his prostate with the next thrust.</p><p>The younger man's reaction was immediate. Sherlock's eyes flew open with a shout and he grabbed the base of his own cock, holding it firmly. John backed off just a little bit, but he continued stroking at Sherlock's insides, letting himself go little by little as he felt the familiar tension start to build in his abdomen. He felt Sherlock tightening around him. Close. <em>Close</em>, he thought.</p><p>John thrust a little faster, a little harder, then angled back up toward Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock yelled, his muscles clamping down tight on John's cock as he came in several creamy stripes onto his own stomach. John tumbled over the edge, the intensity of his own orgasm taking him by surprise as he came into Sherlock, moaning and twitching with several slight jerks as he emptied himself inside the loved body.</p><p>After being so high, the two men, breathing fast and drenched in cum and sweat, took a while to come down. John felt his softened cock slip from Sherlock's wet hole. The tension in his muscles began to relax and he lowered himself down onto Sherlock, shifting to the side and feeling comfortable in his arms. The pair snuggled quietly and John felt the wave of fatigue wash over him.</p><p>"John?"</p><p>"Hmm... yeah?"</p><p>"Let's always sleep together. You should move downstairs into my room."</p><p>"That sounds marvelous," John replied as he gave Sherlock a tight squeeze. Sherlock's bed. Big and covered with luxuriant linens and smelling of Sherlock. He kissed Sherlock on the lips, sincere but comparatively chaste to before, and settled back down next to him under the cozy covers. Indeed, he wanted nothing more than to sleep beside Sherlock every night and make love to him every morning. Not just because each of them would sleep better, and Sherlock would be safe from the sleepwalking, but because he was happy. He was finally with the man he loved. With that thought, he slipped back into a warm and comfortable sleep.</p>
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